Midwinter Fire by Penny Rogers, Malta

Esmé could see the garden from her sitting room. Warm and comfortable in her chair she could watch the seasons unfold. She marvelled as colours changed from muted to vibrant; she observed flowers blooming then fading, fascinated as they shed their seeds in preparation for the coming year. During the long cold winter months she looked at postcards and photos of her old home in Benin.  Going through them she recalled the smells of Africa: the spices, the earth, drying fish, animals, rotting waste, all heightened by the unrelenting heat. But over the years she had become used to the different aromas of traffic, fish and chips and the end of day smells of the street markets in her adopted homeland with its cold, damp climate. She would tell her friends at the Warm Hearts social club: ‘I like the winter; it gives me time to think.’ 

On this particular dreary January day she was thinking about Kadi. Esmé had always promised her daughter that she would take her to meet her family in West Africa, but lack of money and having to do two jobs to make ends meet had meant this hadn’t happened. Then a speeding car with a drunk driver had killed her beloved daughter, leaving Esmé to bring up her grandson. The years had flown by and Olatunde was now testing his freedom living with friends and travelling. He was doing what Esmé hadn’t been able to do and she’d encouraged him. ‘You go. It’s too late for me, but the right time for you.’

In her hand Esmé held a postcard of a market stall piled high with pineapples, bananas, cassava, tomatoes and sacks of rice along the side. It had arrived in November, with a promise to call her at Christmas time. Now it was mid-January and no word from her grandson. She knew he could be easily distracted from calling her when he was visiting relations and making new friends, but Ola was a thoughtful boy and if he said he’d do something then he usually did. She hoped he was alright; listening to the news from West Africa there seemed to be rebel insurgencies, stories of corruption and a widespread drug problem. She’d warned him about all of these dangers but he was young and hot-headed, and as the days went by, and no word came, she felt a sense of foreboding. She wondered what Kadi would have done if she’d been around to see her boy grow up. 

She distracted herself by watching the garden. In the centre was a large bush that she particularly admired. In the summer it was quite nondescript, but in the autumn the leaves turned to orange and gold.  Winter showed its true beauty when it lost its leaves to display stems of vibrant orange. Stems that glowed in the winter sunshine, shone in the pouring rain and contrasted with the white of frost and snow. She had wondered what it was called, so she asked at Warm Hearts, but no one knew what she was talking about. Any mention of the garden and the men would go on about how much better things grew wherever it was they came from. If these men were to be believed, tomatoes grew bigger and tastier in places as diverse as Addis Ababa, Beirut and Manila than they did in the UK.  

‘You are all talkin’ rubbish,’ Esmé would say. She liked English tomatoes and valued being able to get them without hours of back-breaking work. So she gave up asking gardening questions at the club. 

On Thursdays Esmé went shopping. She went to the supermarket for some things, but she preferred the street market. Afterwards she would treat herself to a cup of tea and a toasted teacake in Mary’s Café. This time instead of the café she went into the library. When Ola was little she used to bring him here regularly and he used it for his homework after school. That boy had been studious since primary school; she’d always believed he’d be successful at whatever he chose to do. But she hadn’t been in the library for years and was amazed at the transformation. There were books as she expected, but also lots of computers and tablets with headsets. 

‘Are you OK? Can I help you at all?’ Esmé turned to see a young man with dreadlocks looking at her over the top of a pile of books. She could see his name badge; it said ‘Hercules – Here to help YOU’. 

‘Good day,’ Esmé was always formal when she was unsure of anything, ‘actually you can. I need to know the name of a plant.’

She hurried home with her shopping and an app on her phone, determined to get to the garden before dark. Her hand trembled as she got out her phone and opened the app, as Hercules had shown her. He’d demonstrated on a rather weedy plant in a large pot in the library. She’d learnt that the plant was a Monstera deliciosa, or Swiss cheese plant; she was too polite to say it needed looking after properly, but she did wonder whether the app worked on plants that were thriving outdoors.

It did! She was so excited when the app recognised the plant from its glorious stems; she was worried that she would have to wait until the leaves grew again. There it was, in the palm of her hand, a picture of Cornus sanguinea, a dogwood called Midwinter Fire. The sun dipped below the rooftops and the chill of another winter’s evening was setting in. But Esmé stayed, transfixed by the possibilities of her new app. There were so many plants just in this small communal garden; she could find out what they were. But for now she knew Midwinter Fire, and she turned to go indoors.

As she climbed the stairs she thought for the first time in many hours about Ola, and the joy that had lightened her heart and quickened her step faded. She struggled up the last few steps and hurriedly opened her door, longing to be safe inside her flat. She took off her hat before realising that something was wrong. The lights were on and the aromas of cooking wafted around her. 

She forced out the words ‘Ola, is that you?’

‘Yes, Grandma, it’s me. Were you expectin’ anyone else?’

‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you call me?’ All of Esmé’s fears came tumbling out.

‘Don’t fuss, Grandma. I’m grown now.’ Ola vigorously chopped vegetables. ‘And where were you when I got here?’

Joyfully she told him about her visit to the library. ‘You come here.’ She almost dragged him across the room. ‘You see that plant? It’s called Midwinter Fire.’ Even as she spoke, the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the buildings opposite.

‘Tell me about home! Tell me about Cousin Freddy and his taxi! Tell me ALL about it.’ 

As they ate, Ola told Esmé about their relations: who had married, who had died, who had moved to Europe and who no one talked about. ‘They want to see you, Grandma. They want you to go there. I said I would try to persuade you’. 

It was many years since Esmé had visited her family; she missed them but she really couldn’t afford it. She sighed.  ‘Maybe one day I will, but it’s a lot of money. Perhaps you can set me up with one of them FaceTime sessions to be goin’ on with.’  

On his phone Ola had photos and videos of people and places that had once been so familiar but now looked almost alien to Esmé. ‘They look so old!’ she said when she saw her cousins. ‘Do I look old?’ 

‘Not at all’ was his tactful reply before changing the subject and showing her frames of fish drying in the sun along the shoreline. She was sure the aroma of those fish wafted out of the pictures. Perhaps she should go, just once more.

When they had eaten, Ola got up to leave. She brushed aside his offer to do the washing up and asked ‘What are you goin’ to do now?’

‘Options, I got options.’ He clearly wasn’t going into details. Instead he said ‘Grandma, is it OK if I leave somethin’ here? I’ll get it very soon.’

‘Of course you can. Is it somethin’ excitin’?’ She looked at the bulky envelope in his hand. ‘Looks like a whole pile of banknotes in there.’

‘Nothin’ like that, Grandma, just somethin’ I don’t want to lose.’ He put the package on top of the hall cupboard. 

‘It’s all dusty up there.’ Esmé couldn’t reach to clean along the top.

‘No worry. I’ll clean it for you one day. I’ll be back soon.’ 

The flat seemed so quiet without him. Esmé looked out into the winter night, trying to make out the Midwinter Fire in the dark garden. What was Ola hiding from her? Was it something to do with that envelope on top of her cupboard? Perhaps she should find out what was in it, climb on a chair and have a look at it. ‘No, Esme, don’t even think about doin’ that,’ she said out loud to the empty room. She had to trust him, but a chill ran through her in spite of the cosy warmth of her sitting room.

Next time Ola visited he was wearing a smart new suit. ‘Have you got a job? That must’ve cost a whole lot of money!’ 

‘Sort of.’ He peered at his phone.

‘What ain’t you tellin’ me, Toots?’

‘Mind your own business, Grandma.’

 He’s not a child anymore, Esmé reminded herself, and he doesn’t like being called by baby names. 

 Ola took her hand. ‘Sorry I snapped Grandma. I can’t tell you anythin’ right now, but I will. Promise. And don’t worry, I’m doin’ well. I’ll leave that package for a bit longer if you don’t mind.’ It was a statement, not a request.

 A week later Esmé was enjoying her teacake in Mary’s Café when Ola burst through the door. ‘Leave the teacake, Grandma. It’s champagne for you today.’

‘Have you been drinkin’? Or takin’ drugs?’ Esmé’s worst fears seemed to be coming true. She remembered the envelope and all her fears came rushing back.

‘Cool it, Grandma. I’ve signed a contract with a streamin’ service. For my podcasts.’

‘What are you talkin’ about?’ 

Ola explained that while he was in West Africa he’d shared his adventures on social media. Esmé wasn’t sure what he meant, but as she drank her tea she listened to his excited explanation and how he’d got lots of followers, including some A-list celebs. 

‘A pity nobody told me. So what IS in that envelope on top of my cupboard along with all the dust?’

Ola laughed. ‘Just some papers, you got a suspicious mind; I’ll get it soon enough.’ He changed the subject. ‘Guess what my podcast is gonna be called?’ Esmé shook her head, she had no idea.

‘I suggested Midwinter Fire after that orange plant you showed me and TrypTytch, the producer, really likes it.’

Esmé looked at him with pride tempered with concern. She’d always known that with his abilities he could go far, but what path was he taking?  

‘Stop worryin’, Grandma.’ 

And that, thought Esmé, is easier said than done.

Ola arrived to collect Esmé. He’d told her he was going to take her somewhere special, so she’d bought a new dress and hat.  

‘Not long now, Grandma!’ He’d booked an Uber to take them to a popular West African restaurant. As dish after dish of succulent food was brought to their table, Ola explained that he’d got a job with a digital media company specialising in the African market. He’d be based in London, but would travel a lot, especially to Africa and North America.  

‘So, that’s all wonderful, I’m very pleased for you and relieved you’ve got a proper job. Your Mum would be so proud of you Ola.  But you gotta tell me now. What is in that envelope?’ 

‘Oh yes. This is for you.’ He handed it to her. 

‘You got it down all covered in dust!’ She looked at it with a mixture of irritation and concern; still convinced it contained drugs or money.

 ‘It’s all dirty.’ Esmé flicked away a spider’s web and opened the envelope. For so long she had told herself it contained something illegal.  It didn’t. In it she found travel documents: tickets, visas, everything needed for a flight to Benin City via Lagos.  At last she really was going home. She looked around the restaurant; the chatter, the laughter, the raised voices reminded her of so much that she missed. She inhaled deeply; ah, the smell of the food, an atavistic memory of her younger days.  It was all a lot to take in, but she wasn’t too overcome to say ‘I need to be back by January. I don’t want to miss them bright orange stems.’

About the author

Penny Rogers writes mostly short stories and flash fiction. Her novel Amelie at the Window was published by Bridge House in 2025. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has stories in Spillwords and Funny Pearls as well as anthologies by Bridge House, Henshaw and the Dorset Writers Network.

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Racing for Rodney by Penny Rogers, instant coffee, made with milk

Edie wished that something could have been done for her brother Rodney. He was such a dear little chap. Even after seventy years she could hear him saying ‘One day I’ll race you.’ But he never did.

‘Trouble is, ’es a poor-doer’ Gran opined every time the doctor was called to the little boy. ‘Looks like my sister Gladys. She never thrived.’ 

            Edie heard all this but didn’t really understand why Mummy often sobbed herself to sleep, or why Daddy read ‘The Daily Express’ without his spectacles on, the paper completely covering his face and a hankie tucked into his sleeve. Until the day she came home from school to an empty house, well empty apart from Gran who said nothing except ‘You’ll have to keep a stiff upper lip about this,’ but refused to be drawn about what had happened. That night Mummy and Daddy came home alone.

 

It was an effort to get up from her chair, even though it was on risers, so when her letterbox snapped shut Edie grizzled, ‘More bloomin’ junk mail’. All the same, she struggled up to see what had been delivered. She looked with interest at the flyer she picked up. It was about raising money for children with heart disease. They wanted people to join in in a sponsored race. Good idea, but what could an eighty-three year old who used a walking aid do to help?  She made herself a cup of milky coffee and thought about Rodney, born before there was any treatment for his heart. Could she join in that race for him? She’d better start practising: perhaps go to the Post Office or the shop every day instead of just once a week. That would be a start.

 

The race got under way with runners, walkers. babies in push chairs, young and not so young in wheelchairs but just Edie with her walking aid. Perhaps because she was the only entrant with a walker, or because she was the last to get going, the reporters and photographers paid special attention to her. She only managed to do a couple of kilometres and a marshal had to give her a lift home, but she felt so triumphant that she’d taken part and raised money for a worthwhile charity. One of her carers recorded her interview on local radio when she told listeners ‘That race was a win for my brother Rodney.’

 

About the author

Penny Rogers writes short stories, flash fiction and poems. .She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and her novella 'Amelie at the Window' was published by Bridge House in October 2025. When she’s not writing Penny knits socks and makes pickles and preserves. 

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Saturday Sample: Amelie at the Window by Penny Rogers, old wine

 

Christophe Pichon was still there. The blurry glow emanating from the gas lights in the dairy across La Place de la République made him look so handsome. Amelie sighed. She was in love. The October afternoon had turned into a chilly evening; it was 6.30 and almost dark. By the dim light of the dairy she watched the young man shuffle from foot to foot. The story of how his left foot had been broken when he was a lad, riding the greengrocer’s horse as a dare, was still a source of amusement in the town. ‘Pauvre Christophe,’ she said softly, ‘you need boots that fit properly and don’t hurt your feet.  And when we’re married they won’t dare laugh at you.’

She knew that Christophe had been outside the dairy for almost an hour. She wondered who, or what, he was waiting for. At least she could see him and dream about standing next to him. She wriggled in her chair, willing her wasted legs to move. Soon Odille would come to put her to bed. Oh the indignities of it all! She closed her eyes and imagined Christophe carrying her downstairs and out into the world. He would take her to Lourdes, she just knew he would. When she was cured and able to walk he would marry her as soon as possible. They would always be happy together and never ignore each other as her parents did.

A shout from the other side of the square caught Amelie’s attention.  M and Mme Fischer were arguing. They usually had a row after the second or third absinthe, but today they had at least four before the tension began to build. She knew that Raymond Fischer had come to the town as a young man, running away from something, or someone, in his native Alsace. His curious accent amused Amelie; she knew that behind his back the locals called him choucroute. She also knew they never dared call him that to his face, he had a bad temper and a short fuse, although the years and alcohol had slowed him down.

 

In the room above the milliner’s shop, Amelie picked up her sewing. Needlework was her escape, her link to the world beyond her window. She embroidered appliqués for the hats her parents sold and did a little work on commission. At the moment she was embroidering a velvet cape. It was difficult to hold the slippery material secure in the hoop without damaging the fabric. Slowly a profusion of exotic birds was transforming the edge of the cape. She picked up her work, but it was too dark to see properly. The parrot’s wing would have to wait until the morning.

Amelie could hear voices coming from the shop below. The words were muffled and indistinct but she gathered that Mme Gaudin was undecided about the inclusion of an ostrich feather in her new hat. Amelie strained her ears to catch more of the conversation. Mme Gaudin had seen in an illustrated paper, that peacock feathers were in vogue this year and she wanted to be up to date with the fashion. On the other hand she did not want to appear ostentatious in the endroit reculé of Forentan.  Amelie was horrified to hear her home town referred to as a backwater, and she guessed her parents would be as well. But Mme Gaudin was a good customer, so there was nothing they could do except agree, suggest, agree and suggest.

Another shout from across the street caused Amelie to re-focus on the deteriorating situation outside the tabac. After several drinks they started arguing, inevitably about Clovis. Amelie vaguely recalled the red-haired infant son of Marie-Pierre Fischer. He had died of polio during the same outbreak that had killed many children and left her with legs that didn’t work. According to Odille, a young woman employed by her mother as a part-time nurse and carer, Clovis was born just two months after the Fischers’ wedding. Odille had said that although the child wasn’t his, Raymond Fischer had treated him as his own, doted on him and was heartbroken when he died. Odille reckoned that Marie-Pierre’s heart had broken as well, and that they had both drank so much to hide their pain.

Most evenings Amelie watched the altercations between the Fischers with a combination of horror and amusement, but tonight her attention was divided between the tabac and the dairy. Her eyes were fixed on the latter until it was too dark for her to see the angelic profile of her beloved. She vaguely wondered where Odille had got to; she wasn’t usually late. Below she heard her mother saying ‘Au revoir’ and ‘Merci beaucoup’ to Mme Gaudin. Then the sound of Maman trudging up the stairs. She saw Papa cross the street and hurry to the dairy. To her amazement he was soon in conversation with the adored Christophe.

Her concentration on the unusual sight of her father talking to the man she intended to marry was broken by shouting from the tabac. She saw Marie-Pierre pick up a chair and smack it across the head of the inebriated Raymond. Blood and invectives flowed across the square. Amelie did not know whether to watch the drama with the Fischers unfold or keep her eyes on Christophe and her father.

Her dilemma was solved when Maman came into her room. ‘Odille won’t be coming any more. I’ll have to care for you myself until we can find someone else.’ Amelie’s heart sank. Her mother was never gentle. More importantly, Odille was her source of information, a bridge to the world beyond her bedroom: news of events, gossip, even salacious titbits that had to be whispered when Maman was not around.

‘What’s the matter with Odille?’ she ventured.

Maman sniffed ‘No better than she ought to be.’  Amelie watched as her mother busied with preparations for bed. She could hear Maman muttering ‘catin’ and ‘prostituée.’

 Amelie was none the wiser but didn’t want to upset her mother even more by asking questions.

 

As the autumn dusk turned rapidly to dark, a few more gas lights were lit. Amelie stayed glued to the window until the last possible moment. She wished with all her heart that she knew what Christophe and her father were talking about.

Her concentration on the two men was distracted by the sight of a horse and cart trundling around the square. From her vantage point Amelie could recognise all the locals and their horses, carts, bicycles, even the occasional automobile. But she’d never seen this before. She felt very sorry for the horse, it looked worn-out and dejected. Then she noticed what it was pulling, a sort of trailer with what looked like a wooden shed crazily fixed to the flat bed. Her first thought was that it must be a circus! How exciting, perhaps she could go to that and see the wild animals. Then she made out the faded words on the side of the cart. It was a travelling photographer. Quelle déception.

She turned her attention back to the scene outside the dairy. Christophe was hopping from one foot to the other; her father was punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. He always did this when he was arguing. Amelie considered that this did not bode well for Christophe; her father frequently argued and never conceded anything.

      Meanwhile outside the tabac, the nightly charade of the Fischers had ended. Amelie watched the husband and wife making their way home with considerable difficulty.  Raymond could hardly walk; the arms of his wife, strengthened by a lifetime of hard work, held him just about upright. She guessed, correctly, that the proprietor Bernard Lavoisier was telling them, as he told them almost every day, that they weren’t to come back, that their custom was not worth the fuss and that they would have to pay for the chair. In truth the chair was fine. Raymond’s head less so.

Amelie looked back towards the dairy just in time to see Christophe step back from her father and shake his head. Then he seemed to hesitate, turn and move towards the older man before reluctantly holding out his hand. The two men shook hands then turned away from each other. How she wished that she could have heard what they had been talking about.

 

At 7.25 Amelie was in bed with a bowl of hot chocolate placed carefully on the table beside her. Her mother had clearly resented the wiping, the washing, the holding, the lifting and the dressing. But Amelie closed her eyes and dreamed of the future, WALKING down the aisle with the man of her dreams.

In her room above her parents’ shop, Amelie drifted off to sleep. She wondered why her evening chocolate always tasted so much better than the insipid drink she had in the morning; one day she’d pluck up the courage to ask her mother. But for now she slept, dreaming of the day she would become Madame Pichon.

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About the author

Penny Rogers is the writing name of Penny Dale; she uses
the pseudonym to prevent any confusion with the marvellous writer and illustrator of children’s books who is also called Penny Dale.
 

Before retirement Penny was an academic librarian, and in this capacity edited and contributed to books on learning environments in universities. She also wrote and presented academic and technical papers on learning spaces, as well as development and training for staff in higher education library and information services.

These days Penny writes mostly short stories and flash fiction and enjoys trying out different styles and genres. She has stories in anthologies published by Bridge House,
Henshaw Press and the Dorset Writers Network. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has had stories published by Spillwords, Funny Pearls and in Bare Fiction and Writers 112

In her home town Penny facilitates a writing group that meets to offer mutual support and encouragement. She is also a member of a local poetry group and was on the
management team for SOUTH poetry magazine until it ceased publication in 2025.

When not writing, Penny enjoys knitting, preserving fruits and vegetables from her garden and visiting historic buildings. She is particularly fond of old churches and is
inspired by their history, architecture and continuing contribution to their communities. She is especially good at sitting in her beautiful garden, advising the gardener and planning her next story. 

  

 

Jeopardy at an Event Horizon by Penny Rogers, a can of beer

 Once upon a time in a country full of tall mountains, dense forests and mysterious lakes there lived a boy called Vasily. This story begins when he is about fourteen years years old and living with his parents and sister in a little house made of wood. The fact that it was made of wood isn’t important to the story, but it does help you to imagine the environment where Vasily lived.  Every day his father went to work in the forest, his mother looked after the animals on their small farm and his sister Marta went to work in the nearby town.  She was an astrophysicist and knew a lot about black holes and the very nature of space, time and matter. Vasily went to school most days, though on some days he never got there. It was much more fun to skive off with his friends and ride e-scooters round the streets, terrorising the townsfolk and generally GETTING UP TO NO GOOD.  

            On the days when Vasily did go to school he could be a good student, excelling at maths and science and not at all bad at foreign languages, but he could also be disruptive. His teachers did all they could to persuade him to come to school, stop messing about and work hard so that he could follow his big sister into academic research. But he had no intention of doing this, in fact he had no intention of doing anything except tearing around on an e-scooter, vaping and looking at porn on his iPhone.

            ‘Vasily. I’ve had an email from Mr Mendel. He said you haven’t been to school this week. What are you playing at?' Vasily’s, Eva, was getting fed up with her son’s idleness.

            ‘Dunno. I’ll go next week.’

            ‘I’ll tell your Dad.’

            ‘Go on then. He won’t care.’ That much was true, all Ivor wanted was a quiet life.

            ‘Where are you going now? Don’t get into trouble; you know I’ll get to hear about it. And don’t go near the lake.’

 

I expect you can guess where Vasily went. The lake was about mile from the farm, at the end of a very overgrown track and surrounded on three sides by tall and menacing mountains. Everyone said that evil creatures lived in the lake and lured children to their death within its icy waters. As you can guess, Vasily poo-pooed this warning. ‘Who exactly is ‘everyone’? he asked his mother.

            ‘Well me for a start.  They took your Uncle Anders.’

            Eva’s brother had vanished when he was fourteen, never to be seen again. The emergency services had searched the lake, dredging the murky depths as much as possible and sending divers into the freezing water. But there was never a sign of the missing boy. Eva was acutely aware that her awkward son was now the same age as Anders had been when he disappeared. 

The isolation and bad reputation of the lake was the exact reason why it was so popular with the town’s miscreants. They could go there with vapes and alcohol pinched from the supermarket and watch completely unsuitable material on their devices. On this particular day Vasily was there on his own. He didn’t know where the others had gone and he didn’t really care. He didn’t like them all that much, he considered them losers and dickhead; he was better off without them. Especially if Lula was around.

 

Marta was hard at work in her laboratory. The work she’d been doing on anti-matter was producing good results and she was hopeful that the paper she was due to deliver at a conference in Buenos Aires would be well received and result in some extra funding. She had been working with Professor Andrew Macintyre at Oxford University and she was looking forward to meeting him in Argentina. She’d had lots of contact with him online and every time she saw him he reminded her of someone. He could almost be her awful brother. She was worried about Vasily, he seemed to be heading for disaster, but she was more worried about getting the final readings in time to finish her paper.

            Marta did complete her paper and presented it to wide acclaim in Buenos Aires. She also got to meet Professor Macintyre and to her joy and amazement discovered that he was in fact her missing Uncle Anders. When he was a boy the country had been ruled by a repressive and authoritarian regime that did not allow freedom of thought and expression. If you did not unreservedly agree with the President you were deemed a traitor and imprisoned without trial for many years. Anders had seen a chance to escape and he took it. Initially he had not told his family anything for fear of reprisals, then as time went by and the regime changed, contacting his family became something he was always going to do but never got round to. Anyway, this is not Anders’ story but his escape does show that the supposed horrors in the lake could not be blamed for every unexplained occurrence.

 

On this particular day, it was midsummer so the days were long and warm, Vasily was enjoying the peace and quiet. He was smoking weed and drinking cans of Peroni that he’d been carrying when he walked out of the supermarket. The alarm had rung but no one came and Vasily just kept walking.  

He watched the lake, wondering if he dared go for a swim. Although he had no time for his mother’s fear of it, he had to admit it did look a bit threatening even in the bright sunshine. He might take one of the Mollys he’d got from a mate, see what happened then maybe go for a paddle.

            He swallowed the innocuous looking pill, drank the rest of the beer and threw the empty can into the bushes. The grass around him grew in front of his eyes, the long stems swayed and flowers of the most amazing colours burst into bloom around him. A single voice began to sing to him a song without words that told of pleasures and enchantment, beauty and perpetual freedom.

            When he woke up a pair of green eyes framed by a waterfall of auburn hair were looking at him.

            ‘Lula! How long have you been here?’

            She said nothing, just smiled. Her smile sent quivers running through his body, focussing on his groin and making his trousers particularly tight and uncomfortable. Maybe today would be a really good day. Maybe it would be THE DAY. He was unsure what to do next, so he reached for another can of Peroni. Lula stretched her hand towards him and instead of taking the beer he touched her arm. Her skin felt cool in spite of the warmth of the day and he caught a fragrance completely new to him, the scent of longing.

 

The sun was going down on the long summer day, dipping behind the mountains and casting long shadows over the lake. Vasily could feel the effects of the alcohol, the pill and the weed diminishing with the fading light. He shivered. From far away he heard a church bell calling people to evening worship, calling workers home from the fields, calling him home.

            ‘You can stay here with me.’ Lula spoke softly, her words a gently running stream washing over him. ‘You can stay where there are no rules, no right, no wrong, just pleasure and freedom.’ She indicated the lake, now quite dark except for a final shaft of sunlight forcing its way through a gap in the mountains to a point in the middle of the lake.

            ‘My Mum says there are monsters in that lake, terrible creatures that steal children.’ He wished now that he was home, enjoying bread and honey with a glass of milk.

            ‘Certainly there are monsters there. But there is also unimaginable beauty. There are palaces and gardens, jewels and precious objects, everything you could possible desire. Come with me, I’ll show you the way.’

            ‘But where is this place?’ All he could see was the lake.

            ‘The lake is a gateway. A portal to another world, once you go through it you’ll experience all you ever want.’

            Now Vasily was interested in portals. He’d read some of the work his sister was doing, and he’d often wondered how close you have to be to a black hole before you reach the point of no return, to be pulled inexorably over the event horizon. He looked down at the grit around his feet. Maybe he would become a grain of sand, to be washed up one day and stick to the foot of someone passing by. Perhaps even his mother’s foot as she searched for him, just as she’d searched for her brother all those years ago.

            Of course, at this stage of the story no one knew that Anders was alive and well and that soon Eva would be reunited with him; but as we know, that’s another story.

Lula took his hand. With a shock he realised that her hand was wet and cold, that her beautiful hair was damp and sticking to the back of her pale neck. Yet they’d been in the sun all afternoon. Vasily hesitated.

 

When he got home Vasily went straight to bed. He couldn’t face the bread and honey, but he did drink a large mug of milk. He told his mother that he’d skipped school, but that it would be the last time and he would be a good student in future. If Eva wondered what had happened she didn’t say anything. Probably she was just pleased that he was safely home, she’d heard about problems with a rogue batch of MDMA circulating in the town and kids who’d taken it having to be admitted to hospital.

            The next day Vasily got up at 5.30.  He had a shower, put on clean clothes and went downstairs to help Eva with the chores. After a hearty breakfast of bread, honey and hard boiled eggs he left for school. His head was full of ideas, not plans for bunking off and stealing beer, but ideas for his future. He was sure that Marta would help him; she’d tried in the past. He’d wait until after the conference she was going to in South America then talk to her. Perhaps one day he’d do research like Marta, write important papers, go to Argentina, and meet interesting people. He whistled as he strode towards the school.

            Mr Mendel was waiting at the school entrance. ‘Morning Sir’ Vasily greeted his teacher ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m a reformed student. No more mucking about from me.’

            The teacher looked grave. ‘You’re too late Vasily. The supermarket has you on CCTV stealing beer, the police have your details from a drug dealer they arrested yesterday and I’m fed up with you wasting my time and everyone else’s. So it’s a trip to the Head’s office and I think she’s looking at excluding you permanently from school.’

            The world crumbled around Vasily. The school and Mr Mendel receded into a mist. He heard a strange yet familiar song, and felt a cool pale arm reach out to him.

About the author

Penny Rogers writes short stories, flash fiction and poems. .She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and her first novella Amelie at the Window is being published by Bridge House on October 31 2025. When she’s not writing Penny knits socks and makes pickles and preserves. 

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Man v Squirrel by Penny Rogers, anything you can drink through a straw

The visit to the garden centre had been expensive, but John went home an optimistic man. He had enough to defeat his enemy. Kate looked with amazement at his purchases.

‘All that’ she exclaimed, ‘just to keep one little squirrel away from the bird food!’

‘There’s no such thing as one squirrel; there’s dozens of them.’ John was putting together a contraption designed to protect the bird feeder from unwanted diners. ‘Look, it says it works for racoons, squirrels and rats. In eight languages. It must be good.’

By the end of the day the birds were happily feeding from what looked to Kate like the avian equivalent of a high security prison, and it did seem to be working. The squirrel leapt ineffectually from the ground, swung helplessly from the thinnest branches of the apple tree and failed to master the jump from the shed roof to the feeder. John’s triumph was short lived. The clever little rodent found out that by using the carefully positioned protector as a springboard it could navigate around it and reach its prize. But John was not to be beaten; he would go any lengths to outwit that pesky squirrel.

 

Kate came to the hospital with pyjamas, toiletries and magazines. ‘They said you’d be in for at least a week. Whatever possessed you to balance a stepladder on top of a pile of bricks and wedge a rake above the branch? You could’ve killed yourself.’

            The wiring around his jaw meant that John couldn’t argue. And there wasn’t much point. He knew his efforts to position the bird feeder out of squirrel-reach were unsafe; he thought he’d get away with it. Fortunately Kate had come home soon after the ramshackle structure collapsed. The paramedics who arrived were much too professional to say anything, but John saw the way they looked at the heap of bricks, ladder and rake before shrugging their shoulders. He felt such an idiot.

            ‘Anyway,’ Kate continued. The squirrel is back and I think it’s a she, with babies. I saw the teats on her tummy.’

John groaned. The squirrel had won.

A nurse came in to check on his broken shoulder. ‘Good news’ she said as she adjusted his leg traction splints. ‘You’re going to be moved to a bed by the window. There’s a nice view from there, you can watch the squirrels.’

About the author 

 

Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

How to Save a Lifeguard by Penny Rogers, a bottle of Chardonnay

 The splashy butterfly stroke stopped and Judy’s head popped up out of the disturbed water.

‘Did you see what that man did?’

Suse, concentrating on her backstroke, had been unaware of anyone else in the pool. She’d only stopped to adjust her goggles.

‘He just blew his nose into the water,’ said Judy crossly. ‘I’m going to have a word with him.’

Suse watched as her companion remonstrated with the man. He didn’t seem to care about pool hygiene and Judy wasn’t about to give up. Suse fiddled with her goggles and returned to her backstroke.

‘He called me a stupid … word beginning with c. I told him he was very rude.’

‘Well done for standing up to him. Perhaps he won’t come here again.’ Suse watched the portly figure waddle into the changing rooms.

‘If he does I’ll tell the manager.’ Judy was not going to let him get away with either his nose blowing or his language. ‘What are you looking at?’

The lifeguards were changing over. Suse watched as the young woman with a mass of red hair was replaced by a young man. ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head and changed to a front crawl.

 

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Judy rubbed her hair vigorously. Unable to think of an excuse Suse agreed, though she really wanted to get away from the pool. ‘Let’s go into town. Try that new place next to the cinema.’

While they drank their lattes, Judy chattered, scarcely stopping to take a breath or sip her drink. For once Suse was glad of the stream of words, it meant she didn’t have to contribute anything except an occasional ‘hmmm’ or ‘spect so’.  She could let her mind wander, back more than forty years and up to today when the lifeguards changed over. Out loud she said, ‘It couldn’t be.’

‘Oh yes it could. I was in the group changing room last week, all those youngsters waxed and smooth and me feeling like a real old frump with my hairy foo foo.’

Suse spluttered; fortunately her mug was almost empty. ‘Sorry I was miles away.’

Her friend stopped talking. ‘Are you OK? You’re very quiet.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to make sense of something.’

‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Nah. Maybe, I’ll let you know. Want another coffee? Or something stronger?’

 

‘I knew there was something the matter.’ Judy re-filled her glass, ‘Sorry to sound smug, but it’s not like you to be evasive. C’mon, tell me everything’.

Suse examined the rim of her glass. ‘I like chardonnay; they say it isn’t cool nowadays. But I like it.’

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Being evasive.’

‘Get another bottle, Judy, I’ll tell you what I can.’

Judy came back with the bottle and plates of tapas. ‘No excuse now. Spill the beans.’

‘You know that lifeguard at the pool, the one with the curly hair and lovely dark eyes.’ Judy nodded encouragingly, not at all sure that she knew who Suse was talking about or where this conversation was going. ‘Well, I think he might be my grandson.’ Suse gulped her wine and reached for her handbag. ‘Damn smoking bans.’

‘Carry on. You haven’t smoked since I’ve known you, that’s at least ten years. Just tell me how that young man could possibly be your grandson. You told me you’d never had any kids!’

‘Well I did. Forty-two years ago to be precise. A boy.’

‘Go on.’ Judy passed a packet of tissues to her friend.

‘No need for those thanks. Enough tears have been shed for my little boy. I called him Luke.’

‘What happened to him?’ Jude thought she might need the tissues.

‘Adopted. I couldn’t look after him. No money, no home, I wasn’t much more than a child myself. You see I think my baby’s dad, Terry, died.’

Judy raised an eyebrow, ‘what do you mean THINK he died.’

‘Well, he worked away quite a bit, something to do with phone cables, and one day I got a letter supposedly from his dad to say that he’d been taken ill and died in a hospital in Wales.’

‘Sounds fishy to me.’

‘I thought so at the time, but there wasn’t much I could do. Afterwards I reckoned that he must’ve been afraid it was all getting too serious. Then I found out I was pregnant.’

‘That was awful Suse, and very sad; a lot to deal with. But coming up to date, what makes you so sure that the lifeguard who’s sometimes on duty when we swim is your grandson.’

‘He looks just like Terry, same eyes and curly hair.’

‘So are you going to talk to him?’

‘Don’t be daft, Judy. What could I say. “Hello is your dad forty-two years old? Does he have curly hair, and by the way, is his name still Luke?” They’d call the police’.

Judy munched on a crispy anchovy. ‘You’re right. Lots of people have curly hair and dark eyes. That isn’t enough to go on. Here have some of these little beauties.’

 

Two months later they were back at the swimming pool. Judy had looked for other exercises to distract her friend from what she was afraid could become an obsession. They tried Nordic walking (too wet and cold), line dancing (too many people in the class), Yoga (bossy teacher) even Boxercise (too physical). 

‘Don’t worry, Judy.  When “you know who” is on duty I won’t keep looking at him. Or pretend to drown.’ She added the last bit to lighten the mood. ‘Whether he is or isn’t my grandson is neither here nor there. I gave up my baby and that’s it. Back to perfecting my backstroke.’ Suse jumped in the deep end. She doesn’t want to talk about it, mused Judy. It must still hurt, though she makes a good job of pretending it doesn’t.  Both of them were relieved that there was no sign of the dark-eyed lifeguard with curly hair.

 

In fact he seemed to have disappeared altogether. ‘He must’ve got another job, or gone to university or emigrated.’ They were enjoying wine and tapas in what was becoming their favourite place to meet. ‘Better to be fixated on crispy anchovies than fantasies,’ Suse observed, picking up the local free community magazine that had been left on a chair.

‘Oh my dear lord, look at this!’

Judy took the paper from her friend’s shaking hand.

“Lifeguard’s Search for Donor” screamed the headlines. ‘Jamie Fuller, a popular lifeguard and swimming instructor at Wavy Days Leisure has been diagnosed with a rare kidney disease. His blood type is unusual and the search is on for a suitable donor. His mum Emma said ‘We need an exact match, preferably from a close relation. So far no luck, but we keep hoping. Meanwhile Jamie’s really grateful for all the support he’s been getting, but time’s running out.’

 

In her comfortable sitting room, Suse poured herself a cup of Earl Grey. Judy, for once unable to say anything, stirred sugar into her coffee.

‘It’s all done, Judy. I’ve signed the consent forms.’

‘Well done, Suse, you’re very brave.’

‘No I’m not. There really wasn’t another option. Once all the tests showed a good match then I had to go ahead. They’ve explained what will happen, the risks and everything, but at my age it’s fine. It’s not as if I’ve got a family to worry about – I’ve got good friends…’ she smiled at Judy, ‘…but I could give that young man the chance of a life.’

‘So, is he your grandson?’

‘Probably. But d’you know when it came to the crunch I asked the hospital not to say anything.  After all these years it didn’t seem fair. And I’m not sure how I’d cope with having a family, they might not like me. Let’s just say it’s a happy accident that I’m a good match.’

‘But Jamie’s dad, your son Luke, will put two and two together. He must know that he’s adopted and that any close match is likely to be with his birth family.’

‘I’ve really thought about it, Judy. I used to imagine what Luke looked like as he grew up. I still do if I’m being honest. You know the sort of thing; seeing anyone of the right age on the television, a politician, a sportsman, a rock star.’ She paused, looking determinedly into the middle distance.  ‘Sometimes I wonder, could that man be my son?’

‘And now you really have seen your grandson.’

‘It seems so. But you must understand why I’ve decided to stay anonymous. Such a lot of water has gone under the bridge.’

Judy smiled at the cliché. ‘It’s quite hard to keep a secret these days, so much on social media. And it’s relatively straightforward to track people down, even after many years. I expect Jamie Fuller’s family have left no stone unturned to find his relations.’ She paused and took Suse’s hand. ‘Look I know I’m a blabbermouth but I’ll never breathe word of this to anyone. By the way, do you know who came swimming yesterday?’

‘No idea.’

‘That awful man who swore at me when I told him off for blowing his nose into the pool!’

‘Oh dear, what happened?’ Suse was glad of the distraction.

‘He winked and smiled at me! I didn’t know what to do or say. D’you think he was goading me or chatting me up?’

‘What he said to you was offensive; if he is giving you the glad eye I’d be inclined to…’ 

The doorbell rang, interrupting Suse. ‘Talk about it in a minute. Whoever can that be?’ She went to her front door.

Judy settled back in her chair and helped herself to a chocolate biscuit. Looking around the room she was struck by the absence of photographs. Her rooms, and those of most of her friends’, tended to be dotted with generations of family pictures. It struck Judy as rather sad that Suse had none.  From the hallway she could hear a male voice, talking too quietly for her to catch any of his words. Then she heard Suse speaking.  From the other side of the wall she could sense uncertainty and emotion in her friend’s voice. She wondered what was going on. The answer came as she heard Suse say just one word. It was clear although muffled, as if spoken through a blanket.

‘Terry?’

About the author

Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)